


Possessed: Out of Body!

by waffles_007



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Paranormal, Possession, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 10:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waffles_007/pseuds/waffles_007
Summary: While the scientific community has yet to issue any definite correlation between solar activity: storms and flares, and increases in paranormal activity, it is the position of the Chicago Police Department: Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division, as well as numerous other such investigative divisions world-wide, that there is indeed a relationship; one only needs to review the evidence presented. Gathered from the many eyewitness accounts that coincide every four years alongside the solar storms, the truth is there. The connections are too staggering to ignore – Duncan Keith, Lead Detective: Solar Storm Murders, Chicago Police Department: Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division, Press Conference (2009).When the quadrennial solar storms start again in October, 2017, spikes in paranormal activity coincide and what results is a possession at the hands of a grey and wispy, and angry spirit with a slight purple tint, that is out for revenge. The possessed? Brent Seabrook: Book Editor. The target of said revenge? Current Detective Captain of the Chicago Police Department: PaPADaID (for short), Duncan Keith, Brent's husband. This is their story.





	Possessed: Out of Body!

**Author's Note:**

> A special thank you to @darkangel0410 for listening to me scream about this for a better part of a month. Another special thanks to @bookhousegirl for keeping me in line with my tenses.
> 
> A final thank you to those that ran this challenge as this was a blast to do! Enjoy!

Possessed: Out of Body!

The True Story of the 2017 Solar Storms and the Resulting Body Possession that Happened in the Wake of the Flares

**What is a solar flare?**

A solar flare is an intense burst of radiation coming from the release of magnetic energy associated with sunspots. Flares are our solar system’s largest explosive events. They are seen as bright areas on the sun and they can last from minutes to hours. We typically see a solar flare by the photons (or light) it releases, at most every wavelength of the spectrum. Flares are also sites where particles (electrons, protons, and heavier particles) are accelerated – NASA, retrieved from NASA.gov.

**What is paranormal activity?**

The paranormal can best be thought of as a subset of pseudoscience. What sets the paranormal apart from other pseudosciences is a reliance on explanations for alleged phenomena that are well outside the bounds of established science. Thus, paranormal phenomena include extrasensory perception (ESP), telekinesis, ghosts, poltergeists, life after death, reincarnation, faith healing, human auras, and so forth. The explanations for these allied phenomena are phrased in vague terms of "psychic forces", "human energy fields", and so on – Terence Hines, _Pseudoscience and the Paranormal (2003)_.

**Is there any link between solar activity and paranormal activity?**

While the scientific community has yet to issue any definite correlation between solar activity: storms and flares, and increases in paranormal activity, it is the position of the _Chicago Police Department: Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division,_ as well as numerous other such investigative divisions world-wide, that there is indeed a relationship; one only needs to review the evidence presented. Gathered from the many eyewitness accounts that coincide every four years alongside the solar storms, the truth is there. The connections are too staggering to ignore – Duncan Keith, Lead Detective: Solar Storm Murders, _Chicago Police Department: Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division,_ Press Conference (2009).

~-~

_Wednesday, October 4 th, 2017_

The first Wednesday in October started off just like any other normal first Wednesday in October. Well, normal if impending solar storms could be considered normal. Which, although not frequent, happened often enough, that to be fair, they were considered completely normal. These days, that is. The only thing about the solar storms that might not actually be considered normal, although, at this rate probably _could_ actually be called normal, was the increase in paranormal activity that coincided with the solar storms.

It all started in 1993; the first solar storm in over a century along with the spikes in paranormal activity, and since then, the storms (and the activity) had been coming like clockwork, the first Wednesday in October, every four years, lasting until Halloween. Essentially, it went: storm, nothing, nothing, nothing, storm.  1993, 1997, 2001, 2005, 2009, 2013, and now, 2017. You could set your watch to it. Sort of.

So, as it was, the first Wednesday in October started off just like any other normal first Wednesday in October. The leaves were turning and there was a slight breeze coming up that caused the leaves to shake as they hung by threads to the trees outside the window threatening to fall at any moment in scattered swirls of color.

Plus, the sky was an off shade of orange.

*

At quarter to eleven, like clockwork, the postman, a non-descript man in his early 50’s, pulled up to number 2010 Oakbrook Drive in his white government issued postal truck and grabbed the next bundle of mail from the long waxy corrugated mail tray. An envelope, a rather standard looking document mailer, slipped out of his hands and tumbled down on to the floor at his feet. The postman bent down to retrieve the standard document mailer, bumping his forehead on the steering wheel in the process. “Ow!” He rubbed at his forehead with his free hand and reached blindly for the envelope. He never noticed the thin purple stream of something that looked almost like smoke trickling out of his fingertips or that same haze being sucked up in to the envelope.

‘Interesting’, the postman thought to himself as he shuffled the envelope back in to the mail for 2010 Oakbrook Drive, he hadn’t recalled seeing an envelope of that size tucked in to that waxy corrugated tray when he’d loaded the truck. But then again, he could hardly be expected to remember every single piece of mail that went in to his government issued mail truck. There was simply too much of it. Especially at this time of year: the solar storms wreaked havoc on the electronic mail systems.

And, to be honest, anyway, it wasn’t all that unusual for the occupants of 2010 Oakbrook Drive to receive standard looking document mailers. The ‘Mr. B. Seabrook’ that resided at 2010 Oakbrook Drive was a book editor and the mailer was probably just another manuscript. (The postman didn’t snoop. He didn’t open anyone’s mail—that was a federal offence—but, if an envelope was already open, defective envelope glue perhaps, it wasn’t as if he was _opening_ anyone’s mail. That’s how he knew ‘Mr. B. Seabrook’ of 2010 Oakbrook Drive was a book editor, and, through various other instances of defective envelope glue, that ‘Mr. B. Seabrook’ was married to a cop.)

(The postman might have slipped a copy of his own manuscript, _Memoirs of a Letter Carrier_ , in to the occupants mail a few years back. The garbage man who came on Tuesdays might have remembered seeing it in the trash the following week. It was poorly written.)

As the postman pulled away from the curb at 2010 Oakbrook Drive, he wiped his hand on the right thigh of his medium-light blue postal uniform pants and cursed silently. It appeared the red ink from the standard document mailer’s address label had smudged. Odd. Seeing as that implied the ink was fresh. Which was impossible. The mail had been loaded hours ago.

Also odd, the color and consistency of the streak on the right thigh of the postman’s medium-light blue postal uniform pants suspiciously matched another streak along his left thigh. The postman hadn’t remembered wiping his hands on that leg.

A green streak of lighting flashed across the sky.

*

The mailer with the smudged address label (and no return address, Brent noted when he’d gotten the mail) sat untouched on Brent’s desk until very early Saturday morning.

~-~

_Thursday, October 5 th_

Brent sipped idly at his morning coffee, watching the leaves falling off the trees in their swirls of color, resolutely not thinking about tiny raspy screams, while Duncan sat across the kitchen table reading the morning newspaper, as their cat, Pepper, curled up in his lap. Duncan always said the leaves sounded like they were letting out tiny raspy screams when they rubbed together: Brent always thought Duncan was just the other side of strange, but, he loved him anyway. Screaming leaves aside.

“So, nights.” Brent commented after a bit, drawing his eyebrows together as he got up to refill his cup.

“For now.” Duncan answered without looking up, rustling the newspaper as he flipped through the thin pages looking for A12 and the ending of the front-page story.

It was silent again for a few long moments, Brent adding a teaspoon of sugar to his coffee while Duncan made increasingly irritated faces at the paper.

“I hate that—” Brent started.

“You’ve got to be—” Duncan grumbled.

They both spoke at the same time, their words tumbling in to one another as Brent waved his hand and motioned for Duncan to continue. “Sorry, what?”

“This.” Duncan jabbed his finger sharply in to the newspaper, folding it over before handing it across the table to Brent. “Right there.” Duncan leaned forward and continued jabbing, dislodging Pepper much to her displeasure. She swatted at Brent’s ankle on the way out of the kitchen much to Brent’s displeasure. “Someone leaked that—that wasn’t supposed to be public. What the fuck is wrong with people?”

 _’Police suspect paranormal activity at this time, an unnamed source close to the case divulged to_ The Chicago Tribune _late last night.’_ “That’s not exactly secret—the paranormal activity, what with the storms.” Brent remarked as he rubbed his ankle.

Duncan huffed. “Not _that_. Keep reading.”

 _‘The evidence found at the scene, a sticky iridescent substance, was eerily similar to that found eight years ago on the corpse of the late Jake Winston,_ _the source continued. Early inquires to the police have yet to be answered.’_ Brent’s mouth formed an ‘O’. The sticky substance was probably what Duncan had been referring to. Brent raised an eyebrow as he looked over the paper at Duncan. “A scene with ghost goo?”

“Second scene, actually.” Duncan corrected, then added, “and it’s not ‘ghost goo’, it’s called ectoplasm,” with a tone implying this wasn’t the first time they’d been over this ‘ghost goo’ thing. Brent rolled his eyes as Duncan continued. “The point is, the paper shouldn’t even know about that. Thank fuck they didn’t find out about the other one—”

“The _other_ one?” Brent interrupted. Duncan hadn’t mentioned another one. “I thought—”

Duncan scratched at his beard. “First thing yesterday morning. Found a body down near the canal.”

“You didn’t mention it.” Brent said.

Duncan made a very non-commital grumbling noise before answering. “Distracted. Sorry. Two bodies yesterday. Not one. One first thing. The other in the paper last night—although time of death was probably around ten-fifteen, ten-thirty in the morning. Not too far from here.”

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” Brent interrupted again, thinking back to 2009, back to the storms and the rash of murders that had transpired courtesy of a spirit possession. Brent remembered it clearly because it had been the first murder case Duncan had taken the lead on after making detective. It ended badly when the poor soul who had been possessed electrocuted himself at the scene of his final murder and the spirit had subsequently been banished. At least they assumed banished. Either way, the spirit hadn’t been around since. That they knew of.

Duncan’s nod confirmed what Brent had said. Duncan remembered 2009 quite vividly as well. The massive killing spree, the possessed soul littering the city with bodies. That was, until the _Chicago Police Department: Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division_ ( _PaPADaID_ for short), had cracked the case. Duncan had been twenty-seven at the time and had caught the spirit red handed—quite literally—the possessed was covered in blood. On Halloween.

Duncan had watched the evil spirit as it left the possessed body, wispy and grey, and _angry_ with a slight purple tint, when, in the spirit’s final act, it had grabbed a knife off the coffee table and jammed it in to the nearest light socket—effectively electrocuting its host. Normally not a fatal act, but, when covered in blood, it kind of is. Or can be. In this case, it was. Wetness and conductivity and stuff like that. Duncan remembered, quite clearly, he heard a voice in his head at the exact moment the spirit burst from the possessed body. He never mentioned it to anyone, not even Brent.

“In any case, _that’s_ why I’m back on nights. At least until we catch this guy. Sprit. Thing—whatever.” Duncan waved his hands as he spoke.

~-~

_Friday, October 6 th _

“These nights are killing me.” Duncan groused as he adjusted the vertical shoulder holster that held his police issue Glock 22. “I’m too old for this shit.” He continued as he filled his thermos and added a few heaping teaspoons of sugar and enough cream that Brent was beginning to suspect Duncan would drink straight sugared cream if he could.

“You’re 35,” Brent observed, “and it’s literally been one day.” Brent turned back to the counter, shooing Pepper down and cursing at the infuriating zip-lock bag that refused to zip-lock. He gave up and thrust Duncan’s sandwich in to the plain brown paper bag and hoped it wouldn’t be too crusty by the time Duncan found time to eat. Or too covered in cat hair.  

“Well, that’s at _least_ 47 in detective years.”

Brent raised an eyebrow and checked his watch. 9:45PM. “Ok, then, _Old Man._ Off with you. You’ll be late.”

“Old man, ok.” Duncan accepted the brown lunch sack, gave Brent a kiss goodbye, and rushed out the door. “Don’t forget to take Pepper for her walk before bed.” He called over his shoulder as he slid in to his SUV and punched the garage door opener harder than he really needed to.

Pursing his lips together, Brent glared down at Pepper who was winding her way between Brent’s legs as he tried to make his way back in to the kitchen to clean up. “He babies you too much. You’re spoiled rott—DAMNIT!”

Pepper let out a satisfied meow after nearly sending Brent tumbling to the linoleum.

*

By eleven-thirty, after Pepper’s ‘walk’—which was really an exercise in futility as Brent had spent over twenty minutes standing at the foot of the deck stairs, leash in hand, while Pepper studiously ignored him and licked herself—he was beginning to feel tired. His head nodded every so often and Brent was sure he’d missed at least ten minutes of the news, so he shut off the T.V. and headed for bed. As he walked by the standard mailer with the smudged address label on his way to the bedroom, he paused. The kind of pause one does when they know they’ve forgotten something, but can’t quite remember what it was: like whether or not they’ve shut off the oven or locked the front door.

Brent stood there for a moment, in front of his desk, his fingers involuntarily trailing over the edges of the unopened smudged address labeled standard mailer as he tried to remember what it was that itched at the back of his mind. He didn’t notice as the misty purple haze seeped out of the envelope towards his fingers or the way it retreated without ever touching him when he eventually he gave up and shook his head. It was probably nothing anyway.

~-~

_Saturday, October 7 th_

The manuscript trembled on the desk. Vibrated. Shook. It was antsy. It should have been opened by now. It had been three days. It shouldn’t have been commandeered as a napping spot for a big fat black cat.

Pepper hissed at the smudged address labeled standard mailer as it shook. The mailer hissed back.

*

Brent didn’t hate a lot of things, he thought ‘hate’ was a strong word. In fact, he hated very few things. He did strongly dislike some things though, such as olives, mayonnaise, and telemarketers (and sometimes Pepper, but he’d be damned if he admitted that one out loud—Pepper was Duncan’s pride and joy), but, of the very few things Brent _did_ hate, Duncan working nights was at the top of that list.

It wasn’t that he worried about Duncan, at least no more so than he worried when Duncan worked during the day; he was part of the _PaPADaID_ (for short) after all. It’s more that it:

  1. Made Duncan crabby as anything when his sleep schedule was disturbed, and,
  2. After almost fifteen years together, Brent had trouble sleeping when the familiar shape and warmth of Duncan’s body wasn’t splayed out, arms askew, snoring like a chainsaw next to him.



He’d gotten used to it.

Thankfully, in the almost fifteen years they’d been together, Duncan had only worked nights on a handful of occasions. However, each time had resulted in Brent developing either a) insomnia or b) bouts of sleepwalking. This time, it seemed that sleepwalking was the consequence of the change in schedule. Brent discovered that very early Saturday morning when he woke up sitting at his desk with the manuscript, the one from the smudged address labeled standard mailer in his hands, already on page three.

Brent didn’t remember getting up at all.

Brent flipped back to the cover page, and flipped on the light. He began to read.

_Shocked! Out of Existence_

_The True and Electrifying Story of the 2009 Solar Storm Possession Murders Including Information the Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division Doesn’t Want You to Know_

Normally, underneath the title (the title, which, in Brent’s professional opinion was both trite and far, far, _far_ , too long) would read the author’s name. Or pseudonym, like when Richard Bachman had written all those novels ( _The Running Man_ was the best, again, in Brent’s professional opinion. It seemed more realistic compared to his other novels. It didn’t hurt that Arnie was in the film adaptation, loose as it was. Brent liked Arnie). But the rest of the page was blank.

Brent set the pages of the manuscript down on the desk and picked up the standard mailer. No return address. Curious. He turned the mailer over in his hands a few times, giving the outside a thorough visual inspection in case the author had instead put their information on the back. Nothing there either.

Brent was just starting to inspect the address label, running his finger over the smudged name and thinking to himself that the ink appeared much rustier in color than it had been when it was initially delivered, when a clap of thunder, followed by a loud thunk, followed by the sound of breaking glass made him drop the mailer unexpectedly. “Shit!” The word startled out of his mouth.

It only took a moment to find the source of the thunk. Their wedding picture, his and Duncan’s, normally displayed on the mantle above the fireplace, was lying face-down, half on the hearth and half on the pale beige plush living room carpeting. Brent grumbled and picked the picture back up, meaning to place the frame back on the mantle where it belonged, when he noticed the source of the breaking glass sound. Running the length of the picture, from top to bottom in a squiggly line, was a crack. A crack running directly through the side of the photo where Duncan stood with one arm firmly planted around Brent’s waist, and the other raised, seconds away from shoving a piece of wedding cake in to Brent’s face.

“Pepper! You’re in big trouble.” Brent huffed and looked around for the cat, sure to find her close by with a mischievous expression on her face. “You know you’re not supposed to be up on the mantle.” But, instead, Pepper was curled up in Duncan’s arm chair on the other side of the room, little snores emanating every few seconds as her whiskers twitched in her sleep.

Brent wouldn’t put it past Pepper to have knocked the picture off the mantle anyway then gone and pretended she was asleep. He narrowed his eyes at her as he left the picture on the coffee table with a mental note to pick up a new frame sometime in the next few days.

On the desk, the smudged address labeled standard mailer shook quietly.

~-~

_Sunday, October 8 th_

“The fucking paper isn’t going to let this die, are they?” Duncan complained when he saw the headline.

_The Solar Storm Murders of 2009: Are They Happening Again?_

Followed by the subtitle:

_How Many Have to Die Before Police Confirm the Connection?_

Brent snorted at Duncan’s tasteless choice of words. “Were there more murders?”

Duncan shook his head. “No. Just the two.”

“So, they’re running this story why?”

Duncan chuckled. “Apparently because I’m being a salty asshole for not answering any of their questions.”

“Salty asshole?” Brent laughed. “They called you that? Accurate.”

Duncan rolled his eyes. “I believe the actual quote was _‘Duncan Keith, present Detective Captain, is obviously reluctant to make any connections between the current deaths and those that happened in 2009. Although Captain Keith, detective at the time, solved the murders, he wasn’t in time to save the last of the possessed souls. One can imagine that’s weighed heavily on his conscience for years and explains his constant evasion of questions in relation to the case._ ’ Read: salty asshole.”

Brent snickered. “If the shoe fits…”

~-~

_Monday, October 9 th_

It seemed to Brent that now, not only was he suffering from sleepwalking as a result of his upturned schedule, he might be dealing with insomnia as well. Great. He’d gone to bed after Duncan left at nine forty-five (and after another fruitless attempt at walking the cat) and stared at the ceiling for approximately two and a half hours before finally giving up and sitting down at his desk to read.

Over the last few days, Brent had read through the chapter listing of _Shocked! Out of Existence: The True and Electrifying Story of the 2009 Solar Storm Possession Murders Including Information the Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division Doesn’t Want You to Know_ (the chapters were all titled with numbers—not a good choice in his professional opinion. Told the reader absolutely _nothing_ about what to expect) and had also read the first chapter. It was all about solar storms and paranormal activity and even included a quote made by Duncan from the _PaPADaID_ (for short) press conference that aired shortly after the murders were solved.

Aside from some marginally interesting information about solar storms that Brent could have googled himself if he’d ever had the inclination, there wasn’t much else stimulating about the rest of the chapter. He knew all about paranormal activity: it was hard not to with Duncan working on the force. And Brent certainly knew what was said at the press conference—he’d listened to Duncan rehearse his speech over and over (and over ad nauseum) in the days leading up to the event. It was Duncan’s first press conference, he didn’t want to fuck it up.

Brent was still perplexed though as to where the manuscript had come from. Or rather _who_ the manuscript had come from. There was no indication on the smudged address labeled standard mailer, he’d covered that a few days ago. Also, there was no reference within the text so far to the origin of the author. Giving it one last shot to determine who might have sent the story before giving up and starting on chapter two, Brent picked up the standard mailer and shook it by the unopened end.

He’d hoped perhaps he’d overlooked a cover letter that would come fluttering out down on to the desk, the kind that prospective writers normally enclosed with manuscripts. The kind of cover letter that included not only the author’s contact information, but also a brief synopsis of the book along with any other relevant information that might help to sway the editors’ mind towards giving the manuscript a read—and a chance. Instead, a photograph slid out of the mailer, skidded off the lip of the desk and landed face down on the floor for a split second before Pepper came out of nowhere, plucked it off the carpeting with her teeth and ran off.

“Damnit, Pepper! Get back here!”

After a full ten-minute chase around the house, with Pepper stopping every so often to let Brent get close only to take off at full tilt again, Brent finally cornered Pepper under his desk—right where they’d started. Pepper let the photograph fall from her mouth at Brent’s feet, meowed once, and sashayed in to the kitchen and busied herself with her water dish. Brent swore one day he might ‘accidently’ leave the sliding door open.

To say Brent shivered when he finally picked the photograph up off of the slightly beige plush living room carpet and turned it over in his hands would be an understatement. He downright shuddered.

It was a picture of the _PaPADaID_ (for short), taken a few weeks after the solar flare murders of 2009 were solved. Duncan stood front and center as he received a special commendation from the city’s mayor. It was a picture Brent had seen a thousand times, if not more, because the same picture—well, nearly the same picture—was hanging on the wall behind the sofa. Only, the picture on the wall behind the sofa did not have a wispy and grey, and _angry_ looking spirit with a slight purple tint hovering just off to the left of Duncan’s shoulder. Brent was sure of that.

He dropped the photo like a hot potato.

‘I’m tired. Over-tired.’ Brent mused to himself as he drew his hands slowly down the sides of his face. ‘That has to be it. Trick of the light, probably.’ Only the wispy and grey, and _angry_ spirit with the slight purple tint was still there when Brent mustered up the nerve to pluck the photo back off the slightly beige plush carpeting. He stuffed the picture, and the manuscript hurriedly back in to the smudged address labeled standard mailer and went in to the kitchen. He poured himself a stiff drink and downed it. He poured another, downed that one too, and went back to bed, locking the bedroom door behind him. Duncan would be home in about six hours.

Brent waited.

Outside, the electrical lines buzzed with a blue crackle.

*

When the bedroom door rattled on its hinges, Brent nearly jumped out of his skin. He must have fallen asleep—against his better judgment he noted—because the last thing he remembered was looking at the clock around five a.m. and thinking to himself, ‘three more hours, just three more hours’ as he hugged his arms around his knees.

He’d tried calling Duncan, twice, around that time, but found his cell phone and the home phone unusable—a not terribly unexpected side effect of the solar storms; intermittent interruptions in wireless and landline communications were not uncommon in October.

“Brent?” Duncan’s voice was controlled but held an undercurrent of worry as he spoke—they didn’t lock the bedroom door. “Are you in there?”

“Yeah—yeah, hold on.” Brent replied, as he slid off the bed and unlocked the bedroom door. He threw his arms around Duncan and didn’t care that the butt of Duncan’s police issued Glock 22 dug painfully in to his ribcage. “Thank fuck you’re home.”

Duncan extricated Brent’s arms from around his back and gently lowered them to Brent’s sides as he stepped back. He kept his hands wrapped around Brent’s wrists and gave him a good look, both up and down. Brent looked kind of like shit. Pale, like he’d only had a couple of hours of sleep. Which was accurate. “Did something happen?” Obviously, _something_ had happened.

Brent nodded.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Duncan pressed, drawing his eyebrows together. “Are you—hurt?”

Brent shook his head and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed Duncan’s hand and led him down the stairs to the living room, over to his desk, and pointed at the smudged address labeled standard mailer. “Look.” Brent said. “Inside.”

“Okay?” Duncan shook the contents of the standard mailer out on to Brent’s desk. “Manuscript. Picture. Brent?”

Brent stood behind Duncan, effectively using Duncan as a shield between him and the desk. “Picture.” Brent whispered with a slight shake to his voice.

Duncan picked the photograph off the desk and turned it over in his hands. He spent a moment looking at the front, flipped it over, looked at the back, then turned it back over again.

Brent peeked over Duncan’s shoulder. It wasn’t there. The wispy and grey, and _angry_ spirit with the slight purple tint wasn’t there _._

“Why’s my picture in the envelope?” Duncan asked. “And why does it have teeth holes in it?”

Brent took a moment to answer. “It’s—it’s a manuscript about the murders. Authors—authors sometimes put pictures and other stuff in with them. The holes are Pepper’s doing.” Brent frowned.

“Why’d you want me to look at the pic though?” Duncan said.

“It—well—” Brent faltered. At eight in the morning it really sounded ridiculous to say ‘well, you see, there was this wispy and grey, and _angry_ spirit with a slight purple tint in the picture with you, but it’s not there anymore’.

“Brent?” Duncan placed the photo back on the desk and turned to face Brent as he positioned his hands on Brent’s arms. His thumbs rubbed gently along Brent’s biceps. “Why’d you want me to look at the picture?” He repeated his question rather slowly.

Brent took a deep breath. Duncan was going to think he was crazy. Duncan would say ‘you’re just over-tired, Brent’. Brent shrugged. “Last night the picture was different.”

“Different? Different how?”

“Well,” Brent paused, “there was a wispy and grey, and _angry_ looking spirit with a slight purple tint hovering over your left shoulder.”

Duncan shook his head. “Brent, you’re over-tired.”

“No—well, yes, I probably am, but—” Brent protested. “It was _there_. I _saw_ it.”

“You _thought_ you saw it.” Duncan corrected.

Brent glowered. “I _saw_ it. Twice.”

“Maybe you should lay down with me when I go to bed.” Duncan suggested.

Brent looked over Duncan’s shoulder again at the picture. Nothing.

Duncan was probably right.

If Brent had looked back over his own shoulder though, he would have seen the wispy and grey, and _angry_ spirit with the slight purple tint looking right back at him from the duplicate picture on the wall. Brent hadn’t looked that way.

~-~

_Tuesday, October 10 th_

Nothing much happened on Tuesday. It was a normal day and Brent finally got a chance to get to the store to pick out a new frame for their wedding photo. The salesman had suggested a plastic insert this time rather than glass. ‘Might not be quite as shiny, but it won’t crack’ he’d said after Brent told his tale of Pepper knocking the frame off the mantle.

After reframing the picture, Brent sat down at his desk and read another chapter of the manuscript. Duncan had to wake Brent up from where he’d fallen asleep at his desk with his head firmly planted in the middle of the manuscript. Duncan thought it was funny that this book made such a good pillow.

~-~

_Wednesday, October 11 th_

“Any leads?” Brent asked while they were eating breakfast/dinner: Brent had leftover chicken parm and Duncan had a bowl of Cheerios (which made Brent laugh when he saw Duncan with the box because really, if Duncan was eating them they should have been called Crabbyos).

“Yeah—a couple.” Duncan mumbled through a mouthful of cereal while he narrowed his eyes. “And why are you laughing?”

Brent stopped. “Nothing—nothing.” He figured it would be best to keep his Crabbyos comment to himself. “So, leads?”

Duncan shrugged and took another mouthful before answering. “Sorry, can’t say any more than that.”

“Really?” Brent probed. “Please? I’ll make it worth your while.” Brent waggled his eyebrows suggestively. It looked ridiculous. He knew he shouldn’t press—he knew Duncan probably shouldn’t tell him half of what he did to begin with but it never hurt to try.

Duncan shook his head. “Can’t this time. We’re close and you’d never belie—” Duncan stopped mid-sentence. “I can’t, Brent. Sorry.”

“Your loss.” Brent wiggled his eyebrows again.

“Oh my god, stop that.”

~-~

_Thursday, October 12 th_

Brent read chapters three through seven of, _Shocked! Out of Existence: The True and Electrifying Story of the 2009 Solar Storm Possession Murders Including Information the Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division Doesn’t Want You to Know,_ while Duncan slept. It wasn’t good. Like the title, it was longwinded and as of yet hadn’t provided any details that Brent thought the _PaPADaID_ (for short) didn’t want him—or anyone else for that matter—to know. It was all information that had been printed in article after article in _The Chicago Tribune_. For months. It was not shocking or electrifying. It was pedestrian.

But he couldn’t stop reading. Something wouldn’t let him put it down. It pulled him back to his chair each time he got up to take a break. It was weird.

“—home around nine. Have to stop at the—Brent?” Duncan paused and waved a hand in front of Brent’s face. He snapped his fingers. “Hey—”

Brent blinked and startled at the crisp noise. “Wha--?” He looked around, somewhat surprised at the time and the fact Duncan had been standing right next to him.

“Were you even listening to me?” Duncan grumbled. “You weren’t, were you?”

“Wow, sorry—I was reading.”

“I was talking for at _least_ five minu—Brent?” Duncan snapped his fingers again, this time about two centimeters from Brent’s face.

“Huh? Oh, hey! Time to go?” Brent put the manuscript down and turned in his chair, surprised at the time and the fact Duncan had been standing right next to him.

Duncan stared incredulously at Brent. “I was literally _just_ talking to you.”

“Wow, sorry—I was reading.” Brent shrugged.

Duncan had a very real sense of déjà vu. From about forty seconds ago. He shook his head, he didn’t have time for this—he was already running late. “I gotta go.” Duncan leaned down and gave Brent a kiss goodbye and hurried out the door.

Twenty minutes later, Brent put the manuscript down and set his set his elbows on the edge of the desk. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and hoped it would help quell the dull ache that settled behind his eyes. Rather, he hoped it wouldn’t escalate in to a throb or a thump, or worse, a pound. He wasn’t in the mood for a headache. “Duncan?” Brent called out after checking his watch. If Duncan didn’t get up and leave soon, he’d be late.

No answer.

Brent sighed, pushed his chair back from his desk, and silently cursed Duncan under his breath—Duncan wasn’t a morning person, well, night person. “Duncan?” Brent checked the kitchen. He checked the laundry room. He checked the bedroom and the attached en-suite. Nothing.

As a last resort, Brent checked the garage. Duncan’s SUV was gone. Brent thought it was terribly rude of Duncan to have left without saying goodbye.

~-~

_Friday, October 13 th_

“How can you be mad at me for something I didn’t do?” Duncan waved his spoon, splashing little droplets of milk all over the surface of the kitchen table. “I _said_ goodbye.”

Brent resolutely ignored Duncan and took a loud, angry bite of toast. His glass clanked against the table and orange juice sloshed over the lip when he set it down heavily.

“Really?” Duncan rolled his eyes.

“Just shut up and eat your Crabbyos. You’ll be late.” Brent stomped out of the kitchen in a huff.

Duncan stared down at his bowl of cereal. “My what?”

A distant roll of thunder rumbled and the sky turned a vague shade of yellow for just a split second.

~-~

_Saturday, October 14 th_

“Hey…” Duncan laid a gentle hand on Brent’s shoulder. It was eight-thirty in the morning and Duncan had just gotten home from his shift and found Brent snoring softly with his head firmly planted in the middle of the manuscript as it lay on the desk. There were at least four cups of coffee scattered around his head and a few brightly colored post-it notes stuck to the wall in front of the desk. “Babe?”

Brent didn’t do anything more than let out a loud snore without opening his eyes.

Duncan placed the small vase of wild flowers he’d grabbed on the way home on the corner of the desk. They were meant for Brent as a means of apology (he _knew_ he’d said goodbye, but some fights just weren’t worth perpetuating) and went about picking up the coffee cups as quietly as he could, doing his best to minimize the ceramic clinks as he juggled all four of them in to the kitchen.

Duncan felt bad. It was already two weeks in to October and while the _PaPADaID_ (for short) had leads, ones they thought were solid, it turned out they weren’t as promising as they’d first thought. On the upside though, there hadn’t been any additional murders, just the original two, so there was that. But, regardless, it still meant working nights, just in case, and Duncan could see the effects his upturned schedule was having on Brent. He’d developed dark circles under his eyes, he was forgetful (the ‘goodbye incident’ for example), and now that Duncan thought about it, he was pretty sure that Brent had been wearing the same sweatpants and t-shirt for about 3 days straight now and his normally well-kept close-cropped beard was starting to look a little unkempt.

Duncan was glad he had the weekend off though; he didn’t have to be back at the station until ten o’clock on Sunday night, pending any unexpected murders. He hoped Brent didn’t sleep through it, he missed seeing him.

*

The manuscript quivered under Brent’s head while he slept and a faint purple cloud seemed to seep from the edges of the paper. Slowly, the haze wafted around Brent until it had completely enveloped him from the shoulders up. Brent stirred and licked his lips unconsciously. The mist stilled.

After a moment, the cloud collected itself, formed itself in to a little stream that flowed silently in to Brent’s mouth as he took a breath. It only took a few seconds and the purple haze was gone. Pepper ran and hid under the coffee table.

The manuscript sat still on the desk and didn’t move again.

*

Brent was still out like a light by the time Duncan woke up from his nap—he had only wanted to sleep for a few hours, get himself back in a rough ‘daytime’ routine for the next day so he didn’t spend his time off up all night and sleeping during the day. “Babe?” Duncan gently shook Brent’s shoulder until Brent opened his eyes sleepily.

“Wha—what time is it?” Brent blinked a few times getting his bearings, realizing he’d fallen asleep at his desk.

“Almost noon.” Duncan replied. “I’m gonna get us some lunch. Sandwiches ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’ll work.” Brent agreed even though to be honest, he felt somewhat full already. Which was strange because Brent couldn’t remember having eaten anything at all since the toast he’d had for dinner the night before. Come to think of it, it wasn’t really that his stomach felt full, more that _he_ felt full. His head felt full. Actually, more like his whole body felt full. It was disconcerting.

Brent rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands till he was seeing little tiny pinpricks of light behind his closed lids. They reminded him of the solar flares. Bursting with color, almost blinding, then fading away as quickly as they sprung up. Brent looked at the wall in front of him for a minute as he fully woke up and puzzled at the brightly colored post-it notes stuck there. He didn’t remember putting those on the wall or even writing them. They were just a bunch of numbers, he noted, and, on closer inspection, they didn’t really even look like his handwriting. Then again, if he’d written them in his sleep, he reasoned, who knows what they’d look like. Brent shook his head and headed in to the kitchen for some lunch.

“What’re the flowers for?” Brent asked, hooking his chin over Duncan’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around Duncan’s waist. “Cause you love me?”

Duncan shrugged. “An apology for Thursday.”

Brent unhooked his arms from Duncan’s waist and he took a step back. “Thursday? What’d you do?” His voice was sharp.

Duncan looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath before turning around, not believing he was about to apologize for something he didn’t actually do and that Brent apparently didn’t actually remember. “Thursday? When I didn’t say goodbye? You were in a snit about it yesterday. You told me to shut up and eat my Crabbyos. So, the flowers are me apologizing.”

“Thursday? Crabbyos?” Brent furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

Duncan cocked his head to the side and took a hard look at Brent. “Do you really not remember that?”

“No?” Brent answered, thoroughly confused. On Thursday Duncan had been running late but had given him a kiss goodbye at his desk before leaving in a rush. Friday they’d had dinner and Brent had gone to sit at his desk to read again before Duncan left. It’s where Duncan found him when he’d gotten home. Brent told him as much.

“I…” Duncan trailed off, he wasn’t really sure what to say at this point. “Do you want mustard on this?” He said instead pointing to the ham and cheese sitting on the counter.

“Sure. Just no mayo. I don’t like mayo.”

“I know.”

“By the way, thanks for the flowers. What’re they for?” Brent asked as he was sitting down at the kitchen table.

Duncan nearly dropped the knife. “Uh…cause I love you.”

Brent chuckled. “You romantic sap.”

Duncan just rested his head on the front of the cupboard in disbelief.

~-~

_Sunday, October 15 th_

Duncan woke up to the sensation of being rolled on to his back and a moment later the much heavier sensation of Brent crawling on top of him and straddling his waist.

“Morning sunshine.” Brent grinned leaning down as he wrapped his hands in to Duncan’s hair. He captured Duncan’s mouth, licking in aggressively without concern for his or Duncan’s morning breath and it was a full two minutes before Brent broke the kiss and sat back up.

It left Duncan marginally breathless as he blinked. “Morning?” Duncan raised an eyebrow in question. Brent was normally not this…active before at least two cups of coffee. That’s when he saw the two cups of coffee on Brent’s nightstand. Oh, he’d been up for a while then. “You’re up early.”

“Didn’t sleep.” Brent commented and leaned back down, chasing Duncan’s mouth. Duncan’s hands, firm on his shoulders held him back. Brent frowned.

“Didn’t sleep? Why not?” Duncan questioned.

Brent ignored Duncan’s question and pushed against Duncan’s hands, trying to force his way down, reaching his hand under the covers towards Duncan’s waist.

“Hey! Hey—Brent. C’mon. No. Not now.” Duncan twisted his hips sharply and mimicked the movement with his hands effectively pushing Brent off of him and back down on to his side on the mattress. Brent landed with an ‘oof’. “Didn’t sleep why?”

“I don’t know? Bad dreams?” Brent shrugged. “And what the fuck? You’re really turning me down here?” Brent sounded insulted and by the look on his face, that’s exactly what he was right then.

Duncan bit the inside of his cheek before answering. “Look, it isn’t that I don’t want to,” Duncan’s hand came up to stroke gently down Brent’s arm until he tangled his fingers together with Brent’s. “I’m just worried about you right now, ok?”

“Worried?”

“Yeah.” Duncan spoke quietly. “You seem…” He paused, carefully choosing his words before continuing. “You’ve seemed a little overtired lately. A little forgetful. I’m just worried.”

Brent looked indignant. “Forgetful? Overtired? I feel fine!”

“Brent.” Duncan untangled his fingers from Brent’s and brought his hand up to Brent’s face. He swiped his thumb under Brent’s left eye softly. “You’ve got dark circles.” Duncan’s fingers dragged down to the line of Brent’s beard. “When was the last time you shaved? Three days ago? Four?” Duncan’s fingers played at the stretched neck of Brent’s t-shirt. “You’ve been wearing this since Thursday.”

Brent batted Duncan’s hand away. “I’m fine, Duncs. _Fine_.” Brent placed an enormous amount of emphasis on the last word as he got off the bed and stormed in to the en-suite. A moment later Brent’s head and shoulders popped around the doorframe. Brent was shirtless and his beard was covered in shaving cream. “Better?” Brent growled before slamming the door.

Duncan looked up at the ceiling and slowly pounded his fists against his forehead.

~-~

_Monday, October 16 th_

‘…bottle of wine on the table next to the victim…’ Brent highlighted the sentence with his fluorescent yellow marker and quickly flipped the pages to the next chapter.

‘…empty wine bottle in the trash, underneath some day-old coffee grinds…’ Yellow marker struck through the words.

‘…receipt for a bottle of wine found in victim’s left back pocket…’ Yellow. Again.

‘…broken glass and what appeared to be a tattered wine label found…’ Brent shook the marker, the fluorescent yellow starting to fade as he highlighted.

*

At eight in the morning Duncan came up behind Brent as Brent was sitting at his desk furiously flipping the pages of the manuscript back and forth as if he were looking for something. Duncan caught the fluorescent yellow of highlighting every few pages. “Hey.”

“Hmm?” Brent didn’t look up, humming his reply around the highlighter cap set between his teeth. “You leaving now?” But it comes out more like “U eavin ow?”

It took Duncan a second to answer. “It’s eight o’clock?” He paused. “Monday morning?”

Brent capped his highlighter and turned in his chair to face Duncan. Duncan swore the bags under Brent’s eyes were even darker than they had been when he’d woken up Sunday. Or, at least when Brent had woken Duncan up. “Oh—really?”

Duncan pulled up the date and time on his cell and showed Brent.

“Oh.” Brent felt very confused and felt even more confused when he looked down at the manuscript scattered all over his desk. “What—why’s this all highlighted?”

“Uh…” Duncan didn’t have an answer for that—Brent’s the one that did the highlighting. Something was _very_ wrong here and Duncan wasn’t sure what it was. “Didn’t you do that?”

“No?” Brent looked at his desk and half-heartedly put the pages back in order. “I mean—yeah—I suppose I did.” _He can’t know._ “Know what?”

“What?”

“What can’t I know?”

Duncan was confused. “I don’t….what are you talking about?”

“You just said ‘ _he can’t know’_.” Brent explained.

Duncan hadn’t said anything. “I didn’t say anything?”

 _It’s a surprise._ “What’s a surprise?”

“What’s a what?” Duncan leaned in and pressed the back of his hand to Brent’s forehead lightly. Cool. Maybe a little too cool. “Are you feeling ok?”

Brent was suddenly very, very tired. “I need—I think I need to sleep, Duncs.”

“Yeah, yeah you do, babe. C’mon, let’s get to bed.”

~-~

_Tuesday, October 17 th_

Brent got up three times to his knowledge between the time Duncan took him to bed Monday morning and the time Duncan got home Tuesday morning. Once at two in the afternoon to pee. Once at nine forty-five at night when Duncan kissed him goodbye and left him a glass of water and a sandwich. And once more at four in the morning when he swore he heard laughing—a scratchy, echoey, thin laugh. There was no one else in the house when Brent got up and checked, other than Pepper.

The laughter was in his head.

*

Brent finally got up when Duncan came home at eight in the morning and he felt the mattress dipping off to his side. “Duncs?” Brent mumbled sleepily without pulling his face out of the pillow.

“I’m here.” Duncan threaded his fingers through Brent’s hair, soft and comforting long strokes. “Feeling any better?”

Brent took a moment to assess how he really felt, _say yes,_ and came to one conclusion rather shortly. “I have _got_ to pee.”

*

“You look better.” Duncan commented when Brent came back in to the bedroom from the bathroom. The circles under Brent’s eyes appeared to have faded some in the last twenty-four hours.

“I feel better.” Brent rolled his shoulders and neck, groaning in relief at the resulting cracks. “Are you just getting home?”

“Yeah.”

Brent’s eyes went bit wide for moment. “Holy shit—I slept for like, a day.”

Duncan nodded, agreeing. “Must have needed it.”

“But a day? That’s a long time.”

Duncan looked around the room, hesitating before he spoke. “Ok, so, confession?”

Brent looked at Duncan suspiciously. _Don’t trust him._ Brent shook his head, he could swear he heard a voice. “Confession?”

“Remember after—after the murders in ’09? When I couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you know how sometimes I still have trouble with that?”

“Yes.” Brent looked expectantly at Duncan.

“And how sometimes I have to take a sleeping pill to help out?”

Brent narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

“ImighthavegivenyouacoupleinthatglassofwaterbeforeIleft.” The words rushed out of Duncan’s mouth in one big, long jumble.

“Excuse me?” _He drugged you_. Brent shook his head again. He knows he heard a voice. But it wasn’t Duncan’s. He started to comment on it but he twitched a little instead and forgot what he was about to say.

“You were so tired, Brent. So tired.” Duncan leaned back, away from Brent, unintentionally. “I—I thought it might help.”

Brent’s face went through a myriad of expressions before it finally landed on one of resignation. “It did, I suppose. I feel better. Rested mostly.” Duncan opened his mouth to answer but Brent cut him off. “But, kind of not cool, Duncs.”

“I was worr—”

Brent held up his hand. “I know, worried. I know. Just, you know, tell me next time? It’s not like I would’ve said no.” _We would have said no_. Brent’s right eye twitched.

“Sorry.” Duncan shrugged and looked properly chastised. “You’ve been—um, kind of moody with me lately. The Crabbyos and stuff. I wasn’t sure you would’ve agreed.”

Brent let out a small laugh followed by a small sigh. “Eh, you’re probably right.”

~-~

_Wednesday, October 18th_

Brent was fast asleep at his desk and the puddle of drool underneath his open mouth was fairly large when Duncan got home at eight the next morning. More and more, Duncan was coming home and finding Brent passed out on the manuscript. Duncan debated waking Brent up and was about to give his shoulder a gentle shake when his eyes drifted up to the numerous brightly colored post-it notes stuck to the wall. There were more there than there had been four days ago.

‘7’

‘458’

‘12A’

‘22’

Duncan drew his eyebrows together and leaned closer to the wall, tilting his head as he continued to read the post-its.

‘85’

‘6745’

Something itched at the back of his mind.

‘56B’

Something big itched at the back of his mind.

‘254’

‘66A’

Address numbers. The brightly colored post-it notes were covered in the address numbers of where the 2009 Solar Storm victims had been found. ‘66A’ being the address of the final victim and where Duncan had watched the possessed electrocute himself with a knife in an outlet. Duncan’s hand landed on Brent’s shoulder at the exact moment he noticed another post-it note. This one, not affixed to the wall, but resting under Brent’s open mouth, partially smudged by the expanding puddle of drool. Duncan could just make out the numbers as they bled in to each other.

‘2010’

There was no murder at any address ‘2010’. Duncan was sure of it. His eyes flicked back up to the post-it notes on the wall and mentally cataloged each and every number. They were all there. Every single one of them. But, the number under Brent’s mouth _wasn’t_ one of those addresses. Duncan felt like there was something itching at the back of his mind with a giant red hot poker but for the life of him he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Wait.

The realization of what that number ‘2010’ meant to him was just starting to form in head when Brent sat bolt upright with a start and grabbed Duncan’s wrist. “You’re home!” Brent exclaimed, peeling the post it note off from his beard where it had stuck. He crumpled it up and tossed it in to the wastebasket under the desk.

“Yeah.” Duncan paused, he was just on the cusp of remembering something but as Brent sat holding his wrist, the thought faded away.

~*~

_Thursday, October 19 th _

Brent heard the voice more often now, only he didn’t remember. Whenever the voice spoke the sound lingered in Brent’s head for only a few seconds until it disappeared and Brent was left with a vague echo of nothingness in his head and a small twitch. Brent thought the twitching was maybe just from lack of quality sleep.

Yesterday the voice had said ‘ _he’s figuring it out_ ’ when Duncan was looking at the post-its and Brent had jolted awake and grabbed for Duncan’s wrist just in time. It had then said, _‘too close’_ and Brent’s right eye had twitched and he didn’t remember hearing any voice.  

Gaps started to appear in Brent’s memory, worse than they had been. Large gaps. Only Brent didn’t realize it and Duncan’s so close, thisclose, to solving the murders—they’d had a huge break overnight—that he didn’t notice that much either.

*

Brent was watching a rerun of the eleven o’clock news at just past one in the morning (that he’d missed originally when Pepper had gotten off her leash and led Brent on a chase through the back yard that ended with her sitting in front of the door meowing and Brent brushing cobwebs out of his hair as he pulled himself out from under the deck) when he nearly dropped the remote in to his bowl of ice cream. “Holy shit. No way! No. Way.”

Running across the bottom of the screen, encapsulated in a bright red banner, read the following:

_BREAKING NEWS: The Chicago Police Department: Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division make an arrest in the 2017 Solar Storm Murders case. Details and a special statement from Detective Captain Keith coming up after the weather._

It took a long time to scroll across the T.V.

The first thing Brent did was shoot off a text to Duncan reprimanding him for not giving him a heads up (but it’s done fondly—Brent knew Duncan’s answer, when it came would be, ‘ _you know I couldn’t’)_. The second thing Brent did was hit record on the remote. He got a kick out of Duncan on T.V. He just looked so awkward.

Brent turned the volume up a notch after the weather report—predictions of increased solar activity over the next week, more so than there had been, apparently—and pulled himself to the edge of the couch to watch the report.

“We have breaking news we’ve just been handed. An arrest has been made in the 2017 Solar Storm murders.” The camera broke from the newscaster over to some shaky, dark footage of Duncan leading a handcuffed, fairly non-descript man in his 50’s out of the front door of his house over to a waiting police car. The man was wearing medium-light blue pants.

Brent gawked.

“We’ll have a special statement from Detective Captain Keith coming up right after these messages.” The T.V. got infinitely louder as it launched in to a commercial for vinyl siding. Brent didn’t even notice, he was still staring with his mouth open.

The man, the fairly non-descript man in his 50’s wearing medium-light blue pants was the postman. _Their_ postman. The one who had slipped a (terrible) copy of his manuscript, _Memoirs of a Letter Carrier,_ in to their mail a few years back. Holy. Shit.

 _That was fun. I missed killing._ Brent’s eyes went wide then they twitched as he focused back on the television.

Brent shook his head and blinked when Duncan came on the screen in all his awkward glory. He had to turn the T.V. up even louder to make out what Duncan was saying through his low-toned mumbles. 

“Earlier this evening, the Investigative Division made an arrest in connection with the unsolved murders from earlier in October. As the arrest has just happened, the Police and Paranormal Activity Detection and Investigative Division has no further comment at this time as to the nature of the arrest or of the individual in our custody. When we have conducted a thorough investigation we will relay the necessary information to the public.”

Brent laughed. Leave it to the _PaPADaID_ (for short) to issue a statement on live television that simply said absolutely nothing. No wonder the press thought Duncan was a salty asshole.

“Detective Captain Keith!” Brent heard a voice off-camera. “Can you name the individual that’s in your custody? He looked like a postman based on his clothing at the time of the arrest.”

Duncan pursed his lips. “No, we cannot identify the suspect at this time. This is an active investigation, we cannot comment on the details of the case.”

“Detective Captain Keith.” Another voice from the other side of the screen. “Is it true that these murders bear a striking similarity to those from 2009?”

 _Yes_. Brent twitched.

Brent could tell Duncan was breathing deeply through his nose before answering. “Again, this is an active investigation and we cannot comment on the details of the case.”

“Detective Captain Keith.” A woman in the front row stood up with her tape recorder extended. “Can you confirm the presence of ectoplasm at the first murder scene? _The_ _Chicago Tribune_ already confirmed its presence at the second scene.”

Duncan snorted. “The _Tribune_ confirmed nothing. They speculated based on an unnamed source.”

“So, it’s not true then?” The woman pressed.

Duncan sounded like a broken record at that point. “This is an active investigation, we cannot comment on details of the case.”

“Detective Captain Keith.”

“I’ll save you the time.” Duncan interrupted the reporter standing a few rows back. “This is an active investigation, we cannot comm—”

The reporter interrupted in turn. “Actually, Captain, I was wondering, does it weigh heavily on you that you weren’t in time to save these victims? Like you weren’t back in 2009?”

Duncan’s face turned well over seven shades of red before he finally spoke, biting out the words as clipped and terse as humanly possible. “This press conference is over.”

“Detective Cap—”

“OVER!” Duncan slammed his hand on the podium upsetting his glass of water before stalking angrily off camera.

Brent hit the ‘stop recording’ button on the remote and deleted the press conference from the DVR. That was beyond awkward.

~-~

_~~Friday, October 20 th~~ _

_Saturday, October 21 st_

“So, it was the postman. Dun dun duuun!” Brent sing-songed the last part when Duncan came in to the living room at eight the next morning. “Did _not_ see that coming.”

 _He doesn’t even know he did anything._ Brent twitched.

Duncan stopped. “What?”

“The postman. The murderer.” Brent repeated. “I did _not_ see that coming.”

“Brent?”

“Yeah?”

“We had this exact conversation yesterday.” Duncan looked warily at Brent.

“No, we didn’t.” Brent countered. Today was Friday. The arrest happened Thursday. “You just arrested the guy yesterday.”

Duncan checked his phone for the date. “No, that was Thursday.”

“Yeah, yesterday.”

“Today’s Saturday, Brent.” Duncan checked his phone again, just to be sure. It was Saturday.

 _He’s lying_. Brent twitched.

Brent scratched his beard. “No, no, it’s Friday. Yesterday, well, this morning, I watched the press conference—great job with that by the way—and well, I guess I was reading because here you are.” Brent waved his hands at Duncan. “Home, Friday morning, eight a.m. as usual.”

“Um…” Duncan searched for something to say, anything to say. It was definitely Saturday and Brent had lost a day and was thoroughly convinced he hadn’t. They had even made dinner together the night before, on Friday, after Duncan had told Brent he wouldn’t be on nights anymore, yet, it didn’t seem Brent remembered that at all.

“You want some breakfast? I can make you something.” Brent pushed himself out of the chair and disappeared in to the kitchen, stopping to place his hand on Duncan’s shoulder quickly on his way by. “You might want to get some sleep—this case must be messing with you or something.”

As Brent was walking away, Duncan could hear him muttering, ‘Friday, definitely Friday.

Duncan shrugged and crouched down to pet Pepper who’d been rubbing up against his legs since he walked in the room. “What’s going on with him, Pepper?” Duncan spoke softly, keeping one eye on the kitchen—and Brent. “What do I do?” Duncan’s voice was thick with worry. Pepper only let out a small happy chirp as Duncan scratched behind her ears.

*

“I made you an appointment for the doctor’s on Monday.” Duncan told Brent over the kitchen table.

Brent’s fork hovered half-way between his plate and his mouth. “What? Why?”

Duncan pushed his eggs around for a moment before answering. “Because it’s Saturday.” He held up his hands when he could see Brent was about to interject. “It’s Saturday. You’ve lost a whole day, Brent, and honestly? That’s really not the only thing that’s been happening lately with you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look at you. Those dark circles are back. You haven’t shaved, again, in what? Days? A week? Have you even showered today? In days?”

 _He thinks you’re losing it_. Brent twitched.

“So, I’m growing a beard and I can’t sleep. What’s the big deal? You have a beard. Am I not _allowed_?” Brent argued.

Duncan ran his tongue over his teeth and counted to five slowly in his head before continuing. “Brent, babe—somethings not right here. Trust me.” Duncan slid his chair around the table to be next to Brent. He put his hand gently on Brent’s thigh. “I need you to trust me right now, somethings not right. _You’re_ not right.”

It took Brent a moment to process Duncan’s last words. ‘You’re not right.’ What the fuck was that supposed to mean? “ _I’m_ not right? What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?” Brent tried to shove his seat back but Duncan’s hands came up and wrapped tightly around the rungs of the chair. “Fucking let go!”

“No.” Duncan struggled with the chair, with Brent, for a few moments until Brent sagged down in the chair defeated.

Brent hung his head when he finally said something. “I’m so fucking tired, Duncs. So fucking tired.”

~-~

_Sunday, October 22 nd_

Brent’s face was wet mess by the time he woke up and he silently groaned to himself when he wiped his hand across the side of his mouth and dried his drool off on the leg of his sweatpants.

‘Shit.’ Brent noticed that while he’d slept, the puddle of drool that had been steadily dripping from the side of his mouth had soaked in to the corner of the manuscript and at least one quarter of the top page his face had been resting on was completely illegible, the ink had smudged everywhere.

Brent was standing in front of the bathroom sink washing his hands after taking a leak when he noticed. _Really_ noticed. There were words, smudged and blurred right above his jaw, above the scraggly line his beard had become, again, right where he’d been sleeping on the manuscript. He leaned in towards the mirror and his eyes went wide and his stomach tightened.

_kill_

_kill_

_Dunc--_

The last word was incomplete. Brent’s hand trembled as he brushed his fingers across the inky words. They didn’t wipe off.

He grabbed a washcloth from the towel bar on the side of the sink and rubbed the dry cloth against his skin and looked at his reflection. They didn’t wipe off.

Brent turned on the faucet, added soap to the washcloth and worked up a lather. The words didn’t wipe off.

His throat tightened. Brent had an overwhelming sense of building fear—one he didn’t quite understand; they were only words from the manuscript, obviously transferred on to his face by the wetness of his drool. It was ink. It wasn’t going to be _easy_ to just wipe off after all. But as reasonable as that all sounded in his head, Brent was fucking scared.

Brent cranked the left tap and waited until the streaming water was sending out wafts of steam as it cascaded down in to the sink and swirled around the drain. “ _FUCK!”_ Brent cursed when the washcloth hit his face, the water burned at the sensitive skin above his beard.

“Shit—are you ok?”

Brent nearly screamed when he heard Duncan’s voice.

“Look at this. _This!_ ” Brent pointed to his face, jabbing his finger in to where his cheek was bright pink from the too hot water and the vigorous scrubbing from the washcloth.

Duncan looked confused. From where he was standing, it appeared that Brent’s cheek was nothing more than flushed. He didn’t understand what all the cursing was about. Duncan reached out, pulled Brent’s hand away from his face and took a hard look at Brent’s cheek. “Did you burn yourself?”

Brent sputtered. “Burn—no? I—yes—but— _look at the words_.” His finger flew back up to the side of his face. “Right _there_.”

“Words?” Duncan questioned. Brent’s cheek was pink, yes. But words? No.

Brent pointed again. “Do you not see _the_ words on my face?” His voice was nearing hysteria and rose in volume till he ended the sentence on a shout.

Duncan bit at his lip. No. No, he did not see _the_ words on Brent’s face. He didn’t see _any_ words on Brent’s face. “Um, no?”

 _Liar._ Brent twitched.

Brent’s whole face went red and he turned to the mirror keeping his eyes shifted on Duncan gritting his teeth as he spoke. “You’re telling me,” Brent paused to take a deep breath, “that you don’t see,” he paused again for another deep breath, “the fucking words on the side—” Brent flicked his eyes back to the mirror.

They were gone.

“But—” Brent stared.

Duncan slowly eased Brent away from the sink and led him back in to the bedroom and sat him down on the bed. “Hey, hey—”

“But they were _there?_ ” Brent said quietly, his voice faded as he spoke.

Duncan crouched down in front of Brent and placed his hands on Brent’s knees as he spoke. “Whatever you saw probably washed off.” It was a reasonable assumption.

Brent jumped up suddenly, knocking Duncan back on his ass on to the carpet as he rose. A moment later Brent was standing over Duncan waving the damp washcloth in Duncan’s face as he bent down and spoke loudly and slowly. “There’s no ink on the washcloth. No. Ink. Explain that.”

Duncan shuffled back against the dresser. “Brent—calm down. Calm down.” Duncan held his hands up before pulling himself up off the floor. He was still pressed against the bureau by the looming form of Brent waving the washcloth.

“I will _not_ calm down, Duncan. There were _words_ on my fucking face.” Brent was inches from Duncan, a fine mist of spit covered Duncan’s face from Brent’s yelling.

*slap*

Brent’s mouth snapped open and closed twice without any sound coming out before he slowly crumpled to the floor and grabbed the sides of his head. “What’s happening to me, Duncan?”

Duncan sank down to his knees and ran his fingers through Brent’s hair. “I don’t know, babe. I don’t know.” It can’t be Monday soon enough.

~*~

_Monday, October 23 rd_

Brent squinted and tried to pull his head back when the doctor shone the light in to his eyes. It was bright. Very, very bright and it hurt. Brent didn’t realize he’d even made a noise though until Duncan leaned in and whispered quietly in to his ear, ‘did you just hiss?’ Brent shrugged, ‘it hurt’. His ears were next, but the doctor said nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Same with his throat, and his breathing, and his reflexes. By all accounts, based on a preliminary exam, according to the doctor there wasn’t anything outwardly wrong with Brent that he could tell. The doctor did ask to speak to Duncan out in the hall for a moment though.

“I’m not five—” Brent’s voice was cut off when the doctor closed the door after letting the nurse back in.

“Duncan,” the doctor started.

“What’s wrong with him?” Duncan interrupted before the doctor had a chance to say anything.

The doctor looked over Brent’s chart for a moment before answering. “Nothing physically that I can tell. His eyes look fine, ears, pretty much everything. His temp’s a little low and his blood pressure is a little elevated, so’s his pulse, but that’s normal for some people when they’re at the doctors.”

“But he’s not right. He isn’t.” Duncan tried to explain. “He lost a complete day. He’s forgetful. He isn’t sleeping. He’s having _hallucinations_. Look at him. Does he look ok to you?” Duncan tried his best to keep his voice calm and steady.

“Truthfully, no, he doesn’t look ok, but physically I don’t see anything wrong. I can set him up for some further tests—MRI, EKG, blood tests, but I really doubt they’d find anything.” The doctor told Duncan. “I think you might want to explore the possibility of speaking to a psychologist. Something’s going on, you’re right, but I’m not convinced it’s physical.” The doctor searched the pockets of his white coat for a moment before pulling out a card and handing it over to Duncan. “I want you to take Brent over to the mental health wing before leaving. I’m going to call over there and get you set up to see Dr. Johnson, now. Let him talk to Brent. In the mean time I’ll set up the other tests if you’d like and I’ll write a prescription for a sleep aid for Brent. Just make sure you tell Dr. Johnson—if he prescribes something else, you might not need this one.”

Duncan shrugged, he didn’t know what Brent needed right then, but if the doctor was saying he didn’t think it was physical, maybe they should hold off until after they’d talked to Dr. Johnson. “Yeah—ok. I guess the prescriptions fine for now.”

The doctor nodded and was reaching for the door handle when Duncan lightly grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. “You don’t…” Duncan paused, “you don’t think there’s something else going on, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“ _Possession_.” Duncan whispered.

The doctor considered Duncan’s suggestion for a moment before answering. “Well, you’re the expert in that, aren’t you? Anything he’s doing stand out to you like anything you’ve ever seen? Read about?”

“I…well…I.., but,” Duncan fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. “I guess when you’re in it every day it’s kind of hard to see what’s right in front of your nose. I’m just…” Duncan’s voice trailed off.

“I wouldn’t rule it out, Duncan.” The doctor finally replied. “But before we go that route, why don’t you have Brent speak to Dr. Johnson. You know that kind of thing is rather rare.”

“Yeah.”

*

Things go about as good with Dr. Johnson as Duncan had expected them to go, which wasn’t really good at all. Brent was reluctant, a bit obstinate even, claiming ‘I’m not fucking crazy, Duncs. I just can’t sleep’ to which Duncan had replied ‘humor me, Brent—please’. Brent relented on the walk over to the mental health wing but sat and glared at Duncan the entire time in the waiting room until he was called. Duncan wasn’t sure what happened once Brent disappeared down the hallway with Dr. Johnson, but, the fact that Brent didn’t talk to him the whole way home (or, when they stopped by the pharmacy to pick up an anti-depressant and a mild sedative Dr. Johnson had prescribed) told him all he really needed to know for now.

“I don’t see why I have to take this.” Brent complained when Duncan was getting him a glass of water for his pills.

 _He thinks you’re crazy._ Brent twitched.

Duncan stared at the ceiling for a moment, out of Brent’s view, before turning around. “You said you were tired. You’ve at least admitted that, ok? It’ll help you get some sleep.”

“I’m not depressed.” Brent stated flatly and pointedly only took the sedative, leaving the anti-depressant on the counter.

Duncan counted to five silently. “Just take the other one.”

“No.”

 _Don’t take them._ Brent twitched.

Duncan counted to five again. “Brent…”

“Duncan.”

“Look, fine. You’re not depressed. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.” Duncan was getting exasperated and it bled through his voice. “But, if you’re not, then it won’t do anything at all, and if, you are—” Duncan didn’t let Brent get a word in, “if you are, maybe it’ll help some. Just try it for a few days.” Duncan softened his voice and stroked his hand comfortingly down Brent’s arm. “For me?”

Brent narrowed his eyes at Duncan but did eventually end up picking up the other pill and swallowed it down with a gulp of water. “Happy?”

“Yes.”

~-~

_Tuesday, October 24 th_

“Hey—hey.” Duncan shook Brent’s shoulder lightly until he saw Brent’s eyes blinking open. “I gotta get to work. You gonna be ok?”

Brent blinked a few more times and rolled over and looked at the clock and took in Duncan wearing his shoulder holster and uniform. “It’s almost eight in the morning.”

“Yeah, I’m back on days.” Duncan was about to tell Brent he told him that on Friday and again on Saturday, but at that point, it was probably moot.

“Oh.” Brent furrowed his eyebrows before continuing. “Did you tell me that already? I feel like you told me that. The last few days have been…”

“I don’t remember if I mentioned it or not.” Duncan lied and threaded his fingers through Brent’s hair and pushed the longer strands up off his forehead. “Doesn’t matter if I did or didn’t—you gonna be ok?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Brent leaned in to Duncan’s touch as Duncan cupped his chin while leaning down for a goodbye kiss.

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Get some rest, ok? I left your pills on the counter.”

*

_Don’t take the pills._

Brent flushed the two pills not long after Duncan left. He didn’t need them. He was fine.

~-~

_Wednesday, October 25 th_

_Don’t take the pills._

Brent flushed his pills again after Duncan stepped out to the garage to grab something out of his SUV.

~-~

_Thursday, October 26 th_

_Don’t take the pills._

~-~

_Friday, October 27 th_

On his way out to work, while passing Brent’s desk, something made Duncan stop, a gut feeling perhaps, he wasn’t sure. He took the manuscript off the desk and stuffed it in to his bag on the way out the door. Maybe that way Brent wouldn’t be tempted to get up and engross himself again—he’d been bordering on an unhealthy obsession with the book as far was Duncan’s concerned lately. If it wasn’t there, maybe Brent would just stay in bed and rest a bit more. He could use it.

*

“Where is it? _Where is it?_ ” Brent shuffled through all the papers on his desk again for the third time. He’d already dumped the contents of the drawers on to the light beige plush carpeting and it wasn’t in any of those piles. “It was here. I _know_ it was.” His search continued.

It wasn’t in the kitchen—he’d been through every drawer and the refrigerator and the dishwasher. It wasn’t in the living room—all the Blu-ray’s were on the floor and the contents of the wastebasket were scattered around in the corner. It wasn’t in the laundry room either, or the bed room, or the spare room, or the basement. Brent’s search of the garage came up empty too. By the time Brent had been through each room at least four times, the whole house looked like a tornado had hit it and Brent was close to ripping his own hair out.

‘where is it’ Brent shot off to Duncan on his phone; it took a bit to get a reply.

‘where is what’

‘the manuscript’

… … … ‘on your desk?’

‘no checked that’

‘don’t know I don’t poke around in your things’

_he’s lying_

‘you’re lying’

‘I’m not lying’ (Duncan was definitely lying.)

_he’s lying_

‘why would you lie’

‘I don’t have time for this. I’m at work’

‘liar’

Brent didn’t get a reply.

*

Duncan sighed heavily and put his phone face down on his desk. It was going be fun when he got home, he could already tell.

*

When Duncan got home, about fifteen minutes late because he’d been driving around the block avoiding having to go in and face Brent and his inevitable anger from earlier, dinner laid out on the kitchen table with two candles and a nice bottle of wine was the last thing he expected to see.

“Your coat, sir.” Brent, freshly shaved and showered, greeted Duncan at the door and helped him shrug out of his light jacket and shoulder holster before leaning in and planting a decidedly filthy deep kiss right on Duncan’s surprised mouth. “Dinner will be served in a moment—chicken saltimbocca, asparagus, and roasted potatoes—your favorite—paired with a crisp white wine that I think you’ll find most pleasing.” Brent winked and pulled Duncan in to the kitchen by his hand.

Duncan followed in somewhat of a daze. Of all the reactions he’d played out in his head as he drove home, and around the block, this was really nowhere on his list. “Thanks?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Brent grinned as he was pulling the cork out of the wine and filling a glass for Duncan. “You work hard, you caught a murderer! You deserve something special.” Brent filled a glass for himself.

Duncan was about to mention that Brent probably shouldn’t be drinking with his medication, and about to question the text exchange from earlier, but honestly, after a moment of consideration, he realized he’d probably be much better off if he didn’t bring up either thought. He took a sip of the wine instead. “This is good.” Duncan commented while looking at his glass in appreciation. “What kind is it?”

Brent paused for a moment, looked at the label and replied. “It’s a Villard, from Alto Vineyards down in Champaign.”

Something itched at the back of Duncan’s mind. “Did you—did you go there today?” It was at least a two-hour drive from their house.

“Oh my god, no. When would I have had the time for that?” Brent laughed brightly. “Had to put the house back together after I turned it upside down looking for the manuscript you lied about.”

Duncan let out a very half-hearted ‘heh’ and cleared his throat uncomfortably but Brent kept on talking.

“Anyways—it’s called ‘Solar Celebration’—appropriate, right?” Brent waved his glass at the window. “I thought so, cause of the solar storms and stuff. Fun thing is,” Brent rattled on, “I was in the wine shop, walking around, trying to find something new we hadn’t tried, and I was just about to ask the guy behind the counter for a recommendation when I realized this was already in my basket! Didn’t even remember putting it in there. Weird, huh?”

“Yeah.” Something was really pressing at the back of Duncan’s consciousness but he just couldn’t put a finger on it and it was starting to distract him.

“So, anyways, I look down and this bottles already in my basket—must be those pills, side-effect or something—and the guy behind the counter is all ‘hey, where’d you—"

“The murders.” Duncan interrupted without meaning to.

“What?” Brent frowned a little at the interjection.

“The wine.” Duncan explained. “I knew it sounded familiar—they found a bottle of that at each crime scene back in ’09. It’s impossible though.”

“Well—I mean it doesn’t sound that impossible—well, unusual maybe, who leaves wine at a crime scene—but, I suppose, if you _were_ going to, it would be this. What with the storms going on and all.” 

What was impossible was that after the murders Alto had decided to stop production and recall all remaining bottles that were out for sale. Bad connotations and all. Duncan couldn’t imagine how Brent got his hands on the bottle. “How did you—”

“That’s what the guy at the shop asked too, when he saw it in my basket. Said they hadn’t had that in stock for almost eight years.” Brent explained. “Just lucky I guess. _Murder_ wine…right up your alley, huh, Duncs?” Brent took a big gulp and refilled his glass.

“…sure…” This wasn’t right, Duncan thought, the wine, Brent’s complete 180 in his mood, even after casually dropping the bit about Duncan being a liar. It wasn’t right. Duncan placed his glass on the table. “Are you feeling ok?”  

Brent looked around for a second before answering. “Me? Yeah—why?”

Duncan opened his mouth to reply but found he couldn’t think of one thing to say that wasn’t sure to swing Brent back another 180 degrees mood-wise. “Just checking.” He settled with a small smile but made a mental note to do a little research tomorrow. Something wasn’t sitting right with him about the whole evening.

*

“Oh my god, I’m stuffed.” Duncan leaned back in his chair and placed his hand over his stomach. “That was delicious.”

Brent stifled a small burp, chuckling as he does. “I know, that Italian place on Elm is top notch.”

They sat in silence, letting the food settle for a few minutes till Duncan got up and started clearing the table, pushing Brent down lightly in to his chair when he got up offering to help. “No, no. You did all this. I’ll clean up.” Duncan smiled fondly at Brent and let his hand linger on Brent’s neck for a moment before moving the now empty wine bottle to the counter. “You want to go find a movie to watch or something?” Duncan looked over his shoulder.

“Or something?” Brent waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Duncan rolled his eyes. “Really, don’t do that. It just looks…”

“Hot?”

“Not what I was gonna say.”

“Sexy?”

Duncan snorted. “Just get out—I’ll finish up in here.” He punctuated his last statement by shaking Brent’s chair until Brent got up and headed out in to the living room.

Duncan busied himself with loading the dishwasher and packing up the leftovers, getting them in to containers and in to the fridge. He heard Brent call out after a couple of minutes.

“Gonna run upstairs and change or something.”

“K, I’ll be done in a bit.” Duncan called back. Duncan waited till Brent was upstairs before leaning on the counter and picking up the bottle of wine. Looked like a regular bottle of wine. Felt like a regular bottle of wine. Duncan sniffed at the mouth of the bottle. Smelled like a bottle of wine.

As he put the bottle back down on the counter though, Duncan’s finger stuck a little at the edge of the label, right around the corner, where, upon further inspection, it looked like the label was peeling off a tiny bit. Not really obvious, Duncan thought he might not have even noticed if it hadn’t been sticky. He shrugged it off though, probably just a sticky fingerprint left by one of them when they’d been refilling their glasses. Duncan wiped his fingers on the thigh of his uniform pants and headed upstairs to change.

*

“Hey, tiger.” Brent practically purred the endearment when Duncan stepped in to the bedroom. Instead of changing, it appeared that Brent had headed upstairs and simply shed all his clothing as it had been piled on the floor at the foot of the bed while Brent laid back, completely naked, against some pillows.

“I…” Duncan cleared his throat and swallowed. “I thought you were coming up to change or something.”

“Or something…” Brent licked his upper lip and crooked his finger at Duncan, beckoning him over.

Duncan sat on the edge of the bed.

“Hi.”

“Hi…”

Brent reached over and fisted his hand in to the front of Duncan’s shirt, pulled him down, and gave him a repeat of the deep filthy kiss he’d given when Duncan had first walked through the door. Duncan leaned back a little out of breath. “You _are_ feeling better, huh?”

“Much.” Brent’s fingers were quickly undoing the buttons of Duncan’s uniform shirt and pushing the dark blue fabric apart and off of Duncan’s shoulders so Duncan could shuck the top on to the floor. Brent’s hands were cool and somewhat clammy as they skated across the planes of Duncan’s chest and it made Duncan let out an involuntary shiver.

Before Duncan could comment though, Brent’s hands were sliding down to his waistband and Duncan’s belt was on the floor a few seconds later with his shirt and Brent started working at the button and zipper of Duncan’s pants. His boxers ended up in a pile with the rest of his clothing before long and he was being pulled down for another heated kiss.

“Been a while…” Duncan mumbled against Brent’s mouth and he felt Brent nodding vigorously in agreement.

“Too long.” Brent breathed out. “Hate when you work nights.”

“’M not anymore.” Duncan breathed back and slotted a thigh between Brent’s legs as he covered him completely.

Brent let out a groan that started with ‘good’ and ended with a deep vibration in his chest. There wasn’t not much talking after that, not for a while. It wasn’t until Brent had gotten one leg hooked around Duncan’s waist and Duncan was futilely pushing sweaty dark auburn strands of hair out of his eyes that Brent spoke; his voice raspy and thin and harsh.

Duncan’s hips stuttered and his pace faltered. “What?”  
  
Brent opened his eyes half-way through a moan and looked up at Duncan in question. “What, what?” His voice was normal again (well, it was heated and thick and slightly out of breath) when he spoke and Brent slid his hand down to Duncan’s hip and he pulled lightly, urging Duncan to keep going.

“What’d you just say?”

Brent looked confused. “I didn’t say anything?” His hand pulled a little harder on Duncan’s hip.

“But you—” Duncan shook his head. “Never mind.” Duncan closed his eyes and tried to get Brent’s raspy, thin, harsh voice out of his head. Brent said something and what he’d said was exactly the same thing the wispy and grey, and _angry_ spirit with the slight purple tint had uttered way back in ’09 when it fled the body of the possessed and disappeared.

It took an awful lot of concentration for Duncan to finish as he closed his eyes.

He didn’t notice the thin stream of slightly purple hazy smoke breathing out of Brent’s mouth and being sucked up in to his own.

~-~

_Saturday, October 28 th_

Brent wasn’t in bed when Duncan finally woke up, but then again, Duncan wasn’t that surprised, it was almost ten in the morning after all. After the fairly awkward finish to last night’s activities, at least awkward from Duncan’s viewpoint, they had simply flipped on the T.V. and watched re-runs of House until they both drifted off. At least Duncan tried to pay attention; he was still somewhat freaked out by the words Brent had uttered.

It was…honestly, it was inconceivable that Brent would use the exact sequence of words the spirit had spoken. Duncan had _never_ told anyone what happened that night, what had been said. Not even Brent. There was literally no way Brent would know. Really, absolutely no way. Not possible at all for Brent to know.

There was one way Brent would know.

But that was inconceivable too. Duncan would have noticed. He _should_ have noticed. It was his profession. Well, part of it at least. Duncan was out of bed in less than a few seconds, rummaging through his bag getting the manuscript, and locking himself in the bathroom in case Brent chose that moment to come back upstairs. He’d play it off as ‘occupied’ if Brent came in.

Duncan took a seat on the closed lid of the toilet and started inspecting the pages of the manuscript.

The highlighting caught Duncan’s eye first and he riffled through the pages, reading yellow line after yellow line. Each one referenced the bottle of wine left at the murder scene. The same kind they’d had with dinner the night before. The same kind that was discontinued and recalled and impossible to find—yet, Brent had found. An unsettling feeling started twinging in the back of Duncan’s mind as he recalled the sticky substance on the wine label, the substance he’d wiped on the thigh of his pants. He scrambled off the closed toilet seat and rummaged through the laundry basket for his pants.

Shit.

The stain was still there, right where he’d wiped his fingers and the stain was slightly iridescent when he held the dark blue pants up to the light over the vanity. Shit.

Duncan sat back down and went back to the manuscript. The chapters. They were numbers. The ones on the brightly colored post-it notes stuck to the wall over Brent’s desk. Address numbers. All address numbers where the spirit had killed all the victims back in ’09. Except the last chapter. Chapter ‘2010’.

Duncan’s first thought was that it was referencing the year after the murders, but he thought back quickly and nothing of paranormal importance had happened that year. He started to read and he blanched. Face going white, the same as his knuckles as they gripped the sides of the manuscript, tiny tremors in his hands shaking the pages as he read. He’d only picked up on bits and pieces, words and sentences here and there.

_Two bodies, one down by the canal, the other near Oakbrook._

_It’s been eight years. Eight long years._

_He’ll think he’s going crazy. He’ll think he’s losing his mind._

_Revenge._

_He has to pay for what he did. He spoiled my fun._

_Duncan Keith is going to die._

The lights flickering in the bathroom startled Duncan and he dropped the pages on the floor sending them scattering across the tile. Holy shit.

“Brent!” Duncan ran out of the bathroom, hitting his elbow on the dresser on his way out of the bedroom. He barely even flinched when the pain spread through his arm. “Brent!” Duncan launched himself down the stairs to the living room.

“Hey, Duncs.” Brent looked up from where he’d been lounging on the couch flipping through the sports channels. “Everything ok?”

Duncan slid to a stop on the slightly pale beige plush living room carpet and fell to his knees in front of Brent, grabbing the sides of Brent’s face and looking hard. “Get out!” Duncan yelled in to Brent’s face.

Brent struggled against Duncan’s grip. “What the fuck? What are you—”

“Out! I know you’re in there!” Duncan continued to shout in Brent’s face until Brent managed to dislodge his head from Duncan’s hands.

“Holy shit, what the fuck is going on?” Brent crawled himself back to the far side of the couch, as far away from Duncan as he could get.

“You.” Duncan breathed out harshly. “You’re…you’re possessed. That explains everything. The forgetfulness, the not sleeping, the _hallucinations_. Everything!”

Brent gaped, mouth hanging open for a moment before he finally spoke. “I’m what now?”

“Possessed. I should have seen it. I can’t believe I missed it.” Duncan ranted, standing up to pace across the living room. “You,” he pointed at Brent menacingly, “get out of his body now!”

“I…Duncan, are you sure you’re ok? You sound crazy.” Brent was legitimately scared in that moment—scared that what Duncan was saying was true but also scared at the way Duncan was acting.

“Duncan, no.” Brent shook his head, still pressing himself back in to the corner of the couch. “I’m…I’m not. I’m just…I don’t know, but I’m not possessed. I’d know.” He paused. “Wouldn’t I?”

“The manuscript, I read—I saw—" Duncan stopped and ran back up the stairs returning a moment later with the pages of the book in his hand. “Right here—look.” Duncan pointed to the chapter in his hands.

Brent reached out and timidly took the papers from Duncan’s clutched fist. “What did you read?”

“That’s—that’s our address, Brent. It had details about the murders—the ones from this year.” Duncan explained. “It said I was going to die.”

Brent looked down at the pages in his hands again and when he looked up, he appeared positively mystified. “Duncan?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s nothing about that here.” Brent held the pages out for Duncan to take back.

There was a moment of pages ruffling, Duncan searching and reading and flipping the papers over in his hands. “But—maybe I grabbed the wrong thing.” Duncan took off up the stairs again.

He was still on his hands and knees on the bathroom floor, putting all the pages back in order when he heard Brent at the door. “It’s not here, Brent. It’s not _here_.” Duncan pointed to the small piles he’d made, each one containing a chapter from the book. “They’re all here except...” Duncan’s voice trailed off and he sat back hard, resting his back against the front of the vanity. “I know what I saw.”

Brent sunk down next to Duncan and put his hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “You sound like me, now.” There was nothing but maniacal laughter echoing around in Brent’s head. He twitched. “I think…I think maybe this case kind of got to you a little more than you thought.” Brent shrugged.

Duncan shook his head. He was tired. Suddenly very, very tired and he rubbed the heels of his hands very hard in to his eyes. Explosions of color light up behind his closed lids until they faded away to black. “I…” Duncan faltered, maybe the case had gotten to him. “Are you sure you’re ok, Brent?”

“I’m sure, Duncan. I don’t know what you saw, or why you saw it, but there’s nothing here.” Brent waved his hands over the small piles. “I’m just…” Brent made a little swirling motion around the side of his head and gave a weak smile. “I’m just a little off right now, ok?”

~-~

_Sunday, October 30 th_

The thin purple haze found its way back in to Brent sometime around three in the morning when Duncan coughed in his sleep and Brent let out a truly impressive snore that woke him. Duncan barely stirred.

 _Now. Do it now._ Brent twitched.

Brent carefully got out of bed, stopping when the bed groaned a little under his shifting weight and he waited to make sure Duncan didn’t wake up. Silence.

 _Now._ Brent twitched again.

Duncan’s top dresser drawer opened without a sound, rolling out smoothly as Brent pulled on the small knobs. It was in there. Duncan’s police issued Glock 22 with the clip laying right next to it. Brent reached in and pulled out both the gun and the bullets. As quietly as he could, he slid the clip up in to the pistol grip and flinched when the magazine made a loud click as it settled in to place.

Duncan didn’t move.

Brent gently pulled the top of the pistol back, dropping the first round in to the chamber, he would only need the one.

 _Hurry, hurry_. Brent continued twitching.

It was only three steps back to the bed and when he got there, Brent held the gun out in front of him, leveling the pistol with both hands, pointing it straight at Duncan while he slept.

 _Do it_.

Brent’s finger wrapped around the trigger and he started to pull, little tremors running through his hand.

_Do—_

There’s a bang followed by a loud meow that came from the guest room and Pepper ran in to the bedroom, her fur standing on end as she pounced on to the bed. It was enough of a startle that Brent blinked twice. Duncan only mumbled, ‘Pepper, that you?’ in his sleep and he lifted the covers without waking up to let the cat crawl underneath. Brent looked down at the gun in his hands and back over to Duncan’s sleeping form. He backed up swiftly till he almost ran in to the dresser.

_Later._

He clicked the magazine release button, slid the clip out from the pistol grip, and placed the gun back in to the dresser where he’d found it and in a daze padded back over to the bed and slipped beneath the covers.

 _Tomorrow_.

By the time his eyes were closing, Brent had no recollection of what he’d almost just done.

*

“ _You_ feeling better?” Brent asked Duncan as Duncan’s eyes were squinting against the bright morning sun filtering in to their bedroom. “You’ve been sleeping for ages.”

Duncan smacked his tongue around in his mouth for a moment and it tasted like dirt and sour milk and any other number of disgusting things one wouldn’t want to put in their mouth. “How long was I asleep?”

“Since like, four on Saturday?”

“Really?” Duncan looked confused. “I…I don’t remember going to bed so early.”

“You were really kind of out of it on Saturday.” Brent explained. “You were acting really weird in the morning, telling me I was possessed and everything. Then, the rest of the day you just seemed like you were in a daze.” Brent shrugged. “You took a pill around three-thirty then went to bed.”

“Did I?” Duncan didn’t remember a thing.

Brent carded his fingers through Duncan’s hair, untangling little knots as he moved his hands. “Yeah.”

“Huh.” Duncan shifted a little to let out a long, full stretch. “Possessed? I said you were possessed?” He added after a moment.

Brent nodded. “You came crashing down the stairs and started yelling, ‘get out!’ right in my face. You kind of scared me.”

 _He doesn’t remember_.

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, Brent. I don’t—God, I don’t remember that at all.” Duncan started to question his own sanity at that point in the conversation. “I…I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Brent chuckled. “No,” he leaned in and gave Duncan a light kiss on lips, “just scared me, that’s all.” Brent leaned in for another kiss. “You don’t…you don’t think I am possessed though, do you?”

Duncan propped himself up on an elbow and looked at Brent for a while without speaking. “No, I don’t think so—I mean, I’d notice, right? It’s my job after all. I just think…well, I don’t really know what to think about what’s going on with you lately, but I don’t think it’s that.”

 _He doesn’t suspect anymore_. Brent twitched. _Tomorrow_.

~-~

_Monday, October 31 st_

The sound of moving furniture is what woke Duncan pretty early on Halloween morning and before he had time to register that’s what the sound really was, the light in the hallway flickered and his alarm clock started blinking 12:00 over and over with its glowing red numbers. Duncan groaned. The solar storms were probably causing small power surges all over the city right then. He figured he might as well get up then as he was awake, might as well go figure out what exactly was going on downstairs. It sounded like Brent was rearranging the living room.

Duncan was padding down the stairs in his bare feet, fingers scratching idly at his stomach as he neared the bottom of the stairs, but he stopped suddenly at the landing, one foot hovering mid-step as his knuckles turned white where he was gripping the railing.

“Hi, Detective Keith.” Brent hissed and turned slowly from where he was sitting cross-legged on the slightly beige plush living room carpet, a wide grin plastered across his face with his hair sticking up in wild tufts. “Like it? Should look familiar.” Brent motioned with his free hand towards the living room furniture, now arranged the same way the furniture in apartment 66A had been; the scene of the final murder. Brent’s other hand, the one that had been pre-occupied with a silver dinner knife, was edging dangerously closer and closer to the electrical outlet. The living room smelled vaguely of singed hair.

“Brent, Jesus, no!” Duncan hurried to Brent’s side and grabbed at his arm, pulling Brent roughly away from the outlet. Brent twisted in his grip and waved the knife in front of him making Duncan jump back.

“Brent?” Brent hissed, his voice raspy and thin. “No, not Brent, not anymore.”

“You.” Duncan growled out. “It is _you_.” Duncan searched for something, _anything_ , to hold in his hand as a weapon until he could somehow manage to process what was happening in front of him. He came up with shoe that’d been left carelessly next to the recliner. He waved it around menacingly.

Brent laughed, long and thin and crackly. The noise reminded Duncan of the screaming leaves. “You’re not actually going to hurt him, are you?” Brent stalked around to the back of the couch. “That’s your husband right there. You wouldn’t hurt him.”

Duncan supposed that was actually true. Although it was most definitely the spirit speaking, he was speaking through Brent, his husband, who Duncan would never, _ever_ , hurt. Intentionally. “Your fight is with me, not with him. Let him go.” Duncan circleed around to the front of the couch. “Just let him go and you can have me instead.”

Brent jumped over the back of the couch and honestly, for a split-second Duncan didn’t react because he wasn’t expecting Brent to simply vault over the furniture and land on his feet a foot in front of him. He caught Brent’s arm just in time as the knife cut through the air in front of him.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so.” The spirit answered. “I’m going to use him to kill you. To get my revenge for all those years ago when you caught me and stopped my fun.”

“But _why?_ Why not just possess me? Why take him?” Duncan asked, trying to keep his voice strong and clear. “Why not just make me take care of myself?”

Brent tipped his head back and laughed harder and louder than before. “Oh, that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? This way, he kills you then not only are you gone, but he has to live with what he did. It’s marvelous. He’ll go crazy with guilt!”

“He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t.” Duncan pled. “I was the one who caught you all those years ago. I was the one who should suffer for not saving all those people. Not him. Not _him_. Please. Just _please_ take me instead.”

Brent raised his arm again, attempted to slash out with the knife but as his hand came down, suddenly, there was a very large fat black cat launching itself off of the mantle and directly on to Brent’s face. Brent screamed—a long raspy thin scream and started waving his arms around trying to detach the cat from his face.

It’s all the distraction Duncan needed and in an instant, he was tackling Brent to the ground and knocking the knife out of Brent’s hand. He had his knee in Brent’s back when he started to speak, “ _exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omni satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._ ”

Brent shuddered on the ground beneath Duncan’s weight and a slight purple haze started seeping out of Brent’s skin. Duncan continued, “ _non últra áudeas, sérpens callidíssime, decípere humánum genus.”_

An evil hiss poured from Brent’s mouth as more and more of the purple haze floated out and started gathering itself until it formed a wispy and grey, and _angry_ form with a slight purple tint, that hovered right in front of Duncan. Duncan heard Brent gasp and he knew it was him, he’d know Brent’s voice anywhere and he leapt up, and shouted one final message at the spirit, “ _céssa decípere humánas creatúras, eísque aetérnae perditiónis venénum propináre. Be gone!_ ”

There was a wicked flash of light, almost blinding as Duncan threw his arm over his eyes and when he looked again, it was gone. The wispy and grey, and _angry_ spirit with the slight purple tint was gone. There was a deep groan and Duncan dropped to his knees, pushing strands of hair out of Brent’s face.

“Duncs?” Brent’s voice was raspy, but not the same tone as before, this was worn out, used, tired, but fully Brent.

“I’m here, Brent, I’m here.” Duncan grabbed Brent’s hand in his own and squeezed hard. “He’s gone. He’s _gone_.”

Brent’s free hand came up to feel at his face; his fingers traced over the slashes and cuts Pepper’s claws had made. His fingers were red when he pulled them back and he took a breath before he spoke. “Your cat may have saved my life.”

“I know, I know.” Duncan leaned down and kissed Brent, gently on the lips, over and over, grateful that all he’d suffered were some scratches. They’d heal, some might scar, but Brent was ok. He was going to be ok.

“Wait—” Brent’s hand came up and lightly pushed Duncan back. “Your cat may have saved my life, but I still don’t forgive her for breaking our wedding picture.”

~-~

_Epilogue_

The solar storms still came, starting every Wednesday in October, every fourth year, like clockwork, and so did the spike in paranormal activity. But since then, in 2021 and 2025 and 2029 and so on, Duncan and Brent were never bothered again by the wispy and grey, and _angry_ spirit with the slight purple tint.

The worst they had to deal with was in 2041, when they were both well in to their fifties, and their espresso machine was taken over by a small wispy and green, and _irritable_ spirit with a slight brown tint that did nothing more than curdle the milk they put in the steamer. They could live with that.

 

 


End file.
